She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. ‘I’ll get the key,’ said Roding, turning abruptly. In Old Palace Yard everybody ran. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat.
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